Poezitë që parapëlqej.

ana karenina

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Not sorry, not calling, not crying,
All will pass like smoke of white apple trees
Seized with the gold of autumn,
I will no longer be young

Now you won't beat so,
My heart, touched with cold
And the land of the birch-tree cotton
Won't seduce me into running barefoot

My vagabond spirit, there are yet fewer times
When you move the fire of my song
Oh my lost freshness,
Strorm of eyes and spring flood of feelings!

Now I am with my wishes stingier
Did I dream you up, my life?
As if in the early, booming spiring
I have galloped through on a pink stallion

All, all in this life is mortal
Quietly flows copper of leaves from the mapple
So be you forever blessed
That which came to flower and die.



Esenin, 1921.
 

ana karenina

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Life - a lie with charming sadness
That is where lies her strength
And with her rought hand,
She writes the word of fate.

Always, when I close my eyes,
I say, "Touch your heart and see,
Life - a lie, but even She sometimes
Adorns a lie with joys.

Turn your face to greying sky,
Telling fortune by the moon,
Calm, mortal, and do not ask
The truth you do not need."

It's good in the bird-cherry tree storm
To think that life is fated way.
Let my easy lovers lie to me,
Let my easy friends betray me.

Let them caress me with a tender word,
Let the wicked tongue be sharper than a razor, -
I've long been living ready for anything,
Mercilessly used to everything.

These heights chill my soul,
There is no warmth in the fire of the stars.
Those whom I loved, have renounced me,
For whom I've lived - forgotten me.

But still, unwanted and exiled,
I look with smile at the sunrise,
And on this earth, so close and dear,
I thank this life for everything.



Esenin, 1925.
 

ana karenina

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

The red wings of the sunset are dying
Quietly, the fence is snoozing in the fog
Don't be so melancholy, my tiny white cabin
That again you and I are alone.

Surrounded by blue
The moon is cleaning her horns
On the straw of the roof
I did not go after her, didn't follow
And didn't walk her to the end of the field.

I know, years will quiet my worry
This pain, just like years, will pass
And her innocent mouth and soul
She will save for another.

The one who begs for joy is weak
Only the proud live strongly
But another will crumple her and throw her away
Like an old, rotten horse-collar.

It's not out of misery that I wait for my fortune
One day there will be a nasty snowstorm
And she will come to this land
And she'll come inside to warm her child.

She'll take off her warm coat and shawls
Will sit cozily by my fire
And will say quietly and affectionately
That the child looks like me.



Esenin, 1917.
 

^^MIA^^

Forumium maestatis
Re: Poezi te preferuara

VARFËRIA DHE LIRIA
Cajupi

Jam i varfër, po i lirë,
ndaj më pëlqen varfëria;
kush do të rrojë më mirë,
s'urdhron dot veten e tia.
Mbreti sikur të më thotë
"Hajde në palas me mua,
të gëzosh dhe ti në botë",
do t'i them: "Zot, nukë dua.
Për të ngrën' e për të pirë
nukë mund të shes lirinë;
i varfëri rron më mirë
s'ai që do madhërinë.
S'më duhet ergjëndi mua,
dua lirinë dhe nderë,
dua të bëj si të dua,
jo si të duan të tjerë.
Nukë ka në këtë jetë
gjë m' e vyer se liria".
 

Leana

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Petro Marko
APOLOGJIA IME
(JETES)

...Marrezi, turp turp dhe
mekate
per jeten e terbuar
se kur me ndal, o gjenerate,
qe vuan rruges ndonje nate,
me merr per te denuar
dhe, me nje ze qe vret,
ngahera me pyet:
-Ku linde, o i ri?
-O jete, linda ne shkreti!
-Ku rron dhe ku vete,
ne c'dhera e ne c'dete?!
-Cudi! C'kerkon prej meje ti
dhe si, o jete, pyet,
kurse ne varferi
me hodhe kur me gjete
te lindur nga skelete
pa drite, pa liri?
-Njeri!
Nga vete, as me thua?
-S'e di! Jo, Nuk e di!
Po lerme, o jete, c'ke me
mua?
-Dua ta di, po dua!
-Atehere, jete e krisur,
per mua mos pyet
se qysh ne n'agim kam nisur
te shkel si skllav i shkrete
mbi gjurma shprese drite...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
-O mekatar,
as faliu ligjes sime,
bindu i cmendur enderrtar,
s'jeton me shqetesime!...
-Mu thell' ne brendesire
ku ndjenja rron e lire,
ku dhembja dhemb e prekur
nga ligja jote e fuqiplote,
ne gjirin tim si hekur,
si hekur e celik,
qello,qello, o me kamxhik;
pa frik' e pa meshire
e pa pendim,
se mu ne thellesire
te shpirtit, ne nje kend,
lindi nje shqetesim
qe celi varrin tend...
 

Leana

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Migjeni
Dy buzë...

Dy buzë të kuqe,
dy dëshira të flakta,
që afshin ma thithën,
gëzimin ma fikën,
si fantazma hikën
ndër do bota të larta...
Dy buzë si tëpërgjakta,
dy dëshira të flakta,
që afshin ma thithën
në buzë kur mu njitën
andjet m'i trazuen,
zemrën ma tërbuen,
trurin ma helmuen
e në fund u mërguen...
Dy buzë të kuqe,
bukuri fatale,
të një gruaje stërzane
një pjsë zemre më nxorne,
një pranverë të tanë më morne
dhe gëzimin ma vodhne...
Ato dy buzë të kuqe
dhe dy lote të mija
qenë shenja të dhimbjes,
kur më vrau bukuria,
kur më zu dashunia
e më dogji rinia.
 

katunarja

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

"GLORIA VICTIS "

"Lavdi humbesve"

Sepse jemi ne humbesit e medhenj.
Artin e shkelqyer te humbjes
Ne e kemi ngritur ne fat.
Sepse ne, vetem ne, dijme te gabojme.
Ne gabojme ne miqesi, dhe humbasim.
Ne gabojme ne dashuri, dhe humbasim
Ne gabojme ne shpresat tona, dhe humbasim.
Zaret e bardhe te fateve tona,
Ne i hedhim para dhe vazhdojme ti hedhim ato,
Edhe mbasi te kemi kaluar Rubikonin.
Te gjithe na kane faj dhe askush,
Te tjeret vetem fitojne,
Ndersa ne jemi popull humbes,
I humbjeve te medha.
Zemra jone eshte nje molle e arte dhimbjeje.
Nuk duam te njohim pushtetin e erret te smires
Dhe gabojme..
Nuk e njohim lakmine akrep te pushtetit,
Dhe gabojme...
Kembet tona te zbathura jane ato gjethe vjeshte
Qe bien dhe ecin ne rruge,
Shpirti yne eshte prej lende te brymte trishtimi,
Te gjithe mund ta vrasin..
Te tjeret jo, ato jane fitonjes te perjetshem,
Ata s'humbasin kurre, sepse kurre nuk gabojne.
Ndersa ne gabojme ashtu sic dijme vetem ne!
Artin e shkelqyer te humbjes ne e kemi ngritur ne fat.
Dhe i kemi kthyer krahet lavdise fitonjese.
Ne njohim vetem lavdine e popullit te humbjeve te medha,
Sepse ne, po vetem ne, jemi te vertete!

Fatos Arapi
 

abs

nuk e di...
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Oj Katundare, te lumt dora e bardh si qumshti per kte poezi kohore qe solle!

E shijova kafen me realitetin e vargjeve te saj...

Pac nje dite te bukur.


----------------

Go...
 

melos

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

POULLIT TIM
Deshta, shum’ kam dasht-dishrue
që me këng të trimnoj, me fjalen tënde të ndrydhun
të ngrej fuqitë prej gjumit...
Këndova (dhe kur m’ishte ndalue)
se liria do të vinte edhe për ty, të përbuzun.

Këndova mbi ditët fatlume që do të lindshin, pa dhun,
n’agimin e lirisë për ty me popujt këtu e ngjeti,
mbi forc të bashkimit mbarë:
mbi vrullin tand të mëshehun
-unë, biri yt dhe-poeti.

Po! N’errsinën e shtypjes së randë sa shkambi,
ndëgjova thirrjet që të bana me dal n’dritë-
pse për liri-me tjerë
ke dhanë dhe ti
djers e gjak si etnit.

Kam dhanë, i dashtun...Dhe sot, në liri-
kur thembra e gjaksorit s’na shkel dhe dora pa
pranga mbeti,
me ty këndoj mbi fuqinë e ngjadhun nën yllin që na pri’
-unë, biri yt besnik dhe-poeti.

ESAT MEKULI
 

melos

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Shqiptari Kendon - ESAT MEKULI


Shekujt mbi ne
e në ne
e mbushen jeten plot vnere*-
qe pezm,
e zjarri kryengrites
nder zmerat tona m'u ngri,
qe njeriu mos te jete-njeri:
emri te na zhduket perhere.
Qeme-o njerez po robe;
pa buke, liri n'usdaje,
ne vatren tone
pa shtepi
ne plangun tone
argatare!
Qeme-
turq, dreqen me bishta,
qeme-raje
qe t'hiqet ne vargoj
te mjerimit
te perbuzur-shiftare**!
qeme...
por koha-lufte
sheron varret cdo dite:
mbas nates se erret
te shekujve-
hap krahet koha e re...
Po, jemi gjalle!
Dielli dhe per ne shnderit...
 

eniad

Forumium maestatis
Re: Poezi te preferuara

<font color="brown"> D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930).

Sickness

WAVING slowly before me, pushed into the dark,
Unseen my hands explore the silence, drawing the bark
Of my body slowly behind.

Nothing to meet my fingers but the fleece of night
Invisible blinding my face and my eyes! What if in their flight
My hands should touch the door!

What if I suddenly stumble, and push the door
Open, and a great grey dawn swirls over my feet, before
I can draw back!

What if unwitting I set the door of eternity wide
And am swept away in the horrible dawn, am gone down the tide
Of eternal hereafter!

Catch my hands, my darling, between your breasts.
Take them away from their venture, before fate wrests
The meaning out of them.

</font>
 

Nella

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Apologia - Oscar Wilde

IS it thy will that I should wax and wane,
Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?

Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—
That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?

Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

Perchance it may be better so—at least
I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
While all the forest sang of liberty,

Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where the steep untrodden mountain height
Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.

Or how the little flower he trod upon,
The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been
The best belovèd for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed
On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!
 

klodix

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Provokatori

Ky njeri

e shiti shokun e tij;

ne nje tepsi te arte ia shiti

koken e prere e te gjakosur...

Tek kembet e ketij njeriu endet

frika,

si hija e tij...

Si nje uje i erret jeton

ky njeri.

Cdo mbremje kur perendon dielli,

duke zvarritur breket e se shoqes neper trotuar,

duke ecur ne maje te gishtave

eshte ai qe po afrohet drejt jush.

Njiheni ate

nga zilet e mallkuara

te kembores qe tundet ne qafen e zemres se tij

dhe dijeni se

lebra po ia heq copa copa

mishin

shpirtit te tij...

Ky njeri sot eshte i uritur.

Eshte i uritur por,

e humbi tek ky njeri

krenarine madje uria e madhe dhe e fuqishme

Ah shoke, ky njeri

nje mbremje kur perendon dielli

e shiti shokun e tij;

ia shiti ne nje tepsi te arte

koken e prere te gjakosur...

n.hikmet

{perkthimi i imi}
 

eniad

Forumium maestatis
Re: Poezi te preferuara

<font color="brown"> T.S. Eliot (1888–1965).

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

1917

Kjo eshte nje nga pjeset me te shkelqyera qe kam lexuar /pf/images/graemlins/wub.gif
</font>
 

bebi

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

Goethe

THE MUSES' SON.

(Goethe quotes the beginning of this song in his autobiography, as expressing the manner in which his [poetical effusions usedd 2 pour out from him).

THROUGH field and wood to stray,
And pipe my tuneful lay,--

'Tis thus my days are pass'd;
And all keep tune with me,
And move in harmony,

And so on, to the last.

To wait I scarce have power
The garden's earliest flower,

The tree's first bloom in Spring;
They hail my joyous strain,--
When Winter comes again,

Of that sweet dream I sing.

My song sounds far and near,
O'er ice it echoes clear,

Then Winter blossoms bright;
And when his blossoms fly,
Fresh raptures meet mine eye,

Upon the well-till'd height.

When 'neath the linden tree,
Young folks I chance to see,

I set them moving soon;
His nose the dull lad curls,
The formal maiden whirls,

Obedient to my tune.

Wings to the feet ye lend,
O'er hill and vale ye send

The lover far from home;
When shall I, on your breast,.

Ye kindly muses, rest,
And cease at length to roam?

1800.*
 

Mirsa

Primus registratum
Re: Poezi te preferuara

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

*Pablo Neruda
 

eniad

Forumium maestatis
Re: Poezi te preferuara

<font color="brown"> Regret
Charles Harpur

THERE’S a regret that from my bosom aye
Wrings forth a dirgy sweetness, like a rain
Of deathward love; that ever in my brain
Uttereth such tones as in some foregone way
Seem gathered from the harmonies that start
Into the dayspring, when some rarest view
Unveileth its Tempèan grace anew
To meet the sun—the great world’s fervent heart.
’Tis that, though living in his tuneful day,
My boyhood might not see the gentle smile,
Nor hear the voice of Shelley; that away
His soul had journeyed, ere I might beguile
In my warm youth, by some fraternal lay,
One thought of his towards this may native isle. </font>
 
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